Someone had been in her office. Someone who knew what to look for and how to look for it without leaving obvious traces. That wasn't amateur hour. That was professional.
Which meant the people running this operation had resources. Training. The kind of infrastructure that didn't develop overnight.
He finished his coffee and left Mae's, walking the long way back to his cottage on Beach Road. Thinking.
The meeting with Lila was set for 2 pm at the corner of First and Main. Same place they'd met yesterday. Ronan arrived fifteen minutes early and positioned himself across the street, in the doorway of a shop selling tourist trinkets.
She appeared at 1:58, walking from the direction of the town hall. Her stride was quick but controlled, her shoulders set with the kind of tension that came from carrying too much alone.
He crossed the street to meet her.
"Walk with me."
They fell into step together, heading away from the main commercial district toward the quieter residential streets. He kept his voice low.
"Tell me exactly what you found."
"The files on my desk were moved. Not much—maybe half an inch—but I keep everything aligned. Force of habit." She kept her eyes forward as she talked. "The sticky note on one folder was peeled up at the corner. The drawer with my father's files was locked, but it looked as though someone had scratched the wood around the lock trying to get in.”
"Anything taken?"
"No. I checked everything twice. All the documents are there."
"Including the copies you gave me?"
"Those aren't in my office. I keep the originals at home now. What's in the office is a subset—enough to look like active work, not enough to expose the full picture."
Smart. Smarter than he'd expected. She'd been doing this long enough to develop operational instincts.
"Who has access to your office?"
"Anyone in the town hall during business hours. The cleaning crew after five. Building security has keys." She hesitated. "And the police, if they had a reason to request access."
"Chief Fielding."
"He wouldn't—" She stopped. Took a breath. "A week ago, I would have said he wouldn't. Now I don't know what to believe."
They turned onto a tree-lined street. Old houses with wraparound porches. Carefully maintained gardens. The quiet heart of Blossom Springs, where families had lived for generations.
"I ran a check on Fielding's property holdings," Ronan said. "Three waterfront parcels in the past five years. All were purchased below market value. All with surveys certified by the same county surveyor who replaced your father."
Lila's face went pale. "You think he's involved."
"I think he's benefited from whatever's happening here, one way or another. Whether he's an active participant or just someone who learned to look the other way—that I don't know yet."
"He was my father's friend. He came to every birthday. Every holiday." Her voice cracked slightly. "He told me not to dig. That if there was something wrong with you, he'd handle it."
"And you came to me instead."
"Because my father trusted his instincts, and my instincts say that something is wrong with Tray Fielding." She stopped walking and turned to face him. "Tell me I'm not crazy. Tell me I didn't just blow up my entire life because I couldn't let go of a conspiracy theory."
He wanted to touch her. Wanted to put his hands on her shoulders and tell her she was the bravest person he'd met in years. That her father would be proud of her. That whatever happened next, she wasn't alone.
Instead, he kept his hands at his sides and his voice steady.
"You're not crazy. The patterns are real. The falsified surveys, the adjusted property lines, the attorney who handles most of the coastal transfers—it's all connected. Your father saw it. You see it. And now, apparently, someone else knows you see it."
"So what do we do?"
